


Tomorrow

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about the future and how disasters spark life in all of us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow

Since the fire they have to wear masks outside and in old buildings, the kind with the old air conditioning systems. It was a chemical fire. Or something. Nobody is really sure. And the government were keen to cover up what really went on. But what Chester knows for certain is that hundreds of people died, and that breathing the air right now could kill.

For a few days after the fire there were Public Service Announcements on the TV and the radio. The stations would broadcast the announcements on the hour every hour until midnight when they went off air. Chester remembers reading about world wars, Nazis and gas masks and has to consider how little things have changed since then.

At first he twisted his face about the masks, but then the radio told its listeners about a man from the next town over who thought he could go to the store without it.

Then told of how he’s in ICU.

Breathing the air directly is like locking yourself in the garage with the motor running.

So they wear the masks. And they don’t go outside unless they really have to. And all the while the TV and the radios, the internet, the phone lines, Big Brother is all the time telling them that the problem is under control. And they keep apologising for the inconvenience.

Inconvenience. Problem. Those are their words, as if nothing is wrong at all.

Any other day and Chester wouldn’t care. He doesn’t have to go to school, or work. He doesn’t have to do anything. Nobody has any expectations of each other right now. In a time of crisis there are no deadlines. Just curfews.

Eleven post meridiem is when everybody has to be safe at home. The government saw this as a good idea, thought it’d stop people going out without their masks. But they should know by now that rules spark rebellion.

That’s how it is for Chester.

What you need to know is that, before all of this, before the fire, the incident, the problem, the inconvenience. Before all of this happened, Chester and Brad were skipping class and necking in the bathroom. Who needs mathematics or English literature when you have grinding hips and hot mouths?

Dirty words are the new Shakespeare.

School forced them together every day of their lives so, when they first found out about the fire, they just knew they’d be apart. And Chester was surprised by how much that hurt. People in love make him throw up in his mouth a little, but he was struck square between the eyes with the possibility that he might be in love with Brad.

Probably, he’s just going to miss the sex. Or that’s what he tells himself anyway.

Since they don’t live close to each other it’s near impossible to spend time together. The curfew and the rules, the masks and the inconvenience of it all make sure of that. So today, the day when the public service announcement tells them that the government are running checks around the site of the incident and that there is no cause for concern yet, Chester calls Brad.

“You know the old hospital?”

“Do you hear yourself when you speak?”

Chester rolls his eyes and says “Exe Vale. The old asylum.”

“The derelict one?”

“Yeah. That one. We’re meeting up there.”

Brad wants to know why. After all, Exe Vale isn’t far from the burned out chemical plant and neither of them really have a death wish.

“It’s fine,” Chester says, “they’ve cleared up a lot around there and we’ll have our masks on anyway.”

“Fine,” Brad sighs, still sounding reluctant but unable to ever say no to Chester. “What time?”

“Ten. At night. Just before curfew.”

Brad laughs, says something about petty rebellion and how it’ll just end up in a night in the cells if they get caught. But Chester doesn’t care, and hangs up the phone.

***

Exe Vale asylum was abandoned years ago. Before the chemical plant was built. Much before anything was built. And since then people have salvaged what they could from the place. Oak doors, tiles, syringes, anything. What’s left is a shell of a building with no electricity and holes in the roof that show the stars at night.

Just bricks, broken glass and memories.

Chester climbs through a broken window, his feet crunching on the tiny diamonds of glass at his feet. He breathes out into his mask and looks around, squinting into the darkness. “Brad?”

There isn’t a sound. Just the breeze through the dead trees outside.

And then there’s a hand heavy on his shoulder and a muffled, “Boo.”

Chester jumps and glares at him, “You fucker! You gave me a fucking heart attack.”

Brad shrugs, “You’re young,” he says, “you’ll live.”

They venture further into the building, broken glass and splintered wood crackling under their feet. There’s the smell of rot, and damp, and the horrible feeling that they’re not alone.

Whatever room they end up in has no sign on the door but there’s an old leather gurney with a light attached with a shattered bulb and rusted hinges. Brad kicks at an old book with swollen pages rotting inside and says “Who said romance was dead?”

Chester rolls his eyes. “We’re rebelling. It’s all the rage.” Then, “Wanna have sex?”

Brad looks around at the rusted nails sticking out of cupboards that are hanging off the walls and at the broken glass and the damp. The bare brick. This shell of a place. And he says, “Yeah sure.”

Chester backs him up against the cleanest looking wall and presses hard against him. They can’t kiss because of the masks, so Chester compensates by shoving a hand down the front of Brad’s pants, massaging him through his boxers. There’s something about this, about the masks and the pollution and Brad’s cock hardening under Chester’s hand.

There’s something about the rotting building. And the curfew.

Brad moans lowly and bucks his hips, “They say it was terrorists who did what they did to the plant.”

Terrorists from some lost country somewhere that neither of them have heard of since Geography was cut from the syllabus at school.

Chester just sighs into his mask and says “Shut up and touch me.”

So Brad does, shoving his hands down the back of Chester’s pants and pushing one dry finger into his body.

A beam of light shines through the broken window beside them and a radio crackles. Security. Or cops. It doesn’t matter – either way, if they’re caught they’re in a lot of trouble. But Chester doesn’t stop rubbing Brad and Brad doesn’t pull out his hand, adds another finger instead that has the older boy moaning into his mask.

And they stand there in the dark, the beam flashing into the room and the static of the radio. They breathe heavily into their masks and press their cheeks together. In a city that was built from the ground up not thirty years ago, it’s hard not to fall in love with something old.

Fall in love with an old building, the old story of boy meets boy.

This quiet rebellion in the only building in town that has any kind of history.

Brad whispers “We’re going to get arrested. We’ll spend a night in the cells. The kind with electric bars.”

Chester tugs off his mask, taking a deep breath of poisonous air and dust. “We might as well make it worth our while then.”

Brad hesitantly pulls of his own and their lips meet. The masks hit the ground just as the torch beams illuminate and reveal them. And as the police start yelling and crowding in, Chester laughs into Brad’s mouth saying “I think I love you.”

And the police, they’re saying, “Show us your hands.”

And Brad laughs and says “I think I love you too.”

And they stand there, kissing in the dark, until the police pull them apart.


End file.
